Page 64 of Cursebreaker

Eliza claps, jarring Margaret awake with a confused snort. Margaret focuses on the glass bottle as Owen presents it to the crew, and she throws her head back with laughter.

“Now you’re talking!”

Aboard the Lightbringer, we were never allowed to partake in rum. Mother disapproved. Dulls the mind, she would say. And our minds were to remain sharp at all times—constantly vigilant, always prepared for the next battle. But there were times Lewis would smuggle bottles of rum, and though I never joined them, I would hear my eldest siblings laughing and singing and dancing late into the night. Mother heard them, too. But she never stopped them.

On a night like tonight, with everything that’s happened, I understand why.

Owen pours generous amounts of rum while Rook strikes up a merry tune on his fiddle. After a few drinks, as midnight approaches, Jack leans heavily on Rook’s shoulder, the two of them serenading us all with silly songs about sailors and stars and musical fish. Margaret and Eliza practice throwing knives at a makeshift target, giggling like children each time they hit the bull’s-eye. Diana and Charlie share lingering glances from behind their cards, while Lewis watches his own sweetheart with pure adoration, and Gabriel glowers at the deck of cards each time Owen shuffles them—mainly because he continues to come in last place. Even the pixies, with their thimble’s worth of liquid courage, join in on the festivities; Liv, clinging to Rooster the cat, races Sylvie atop one of the chickens.

Henry doesn’t partake in the rum, but he seems content to surround himself with our merriment all the same.

Owen, no longer allowed to play Clubs—Lewis accuses him of cheating, and Owen merely shrugs—now referees both the game and the pixie races taking place adjacent to our card table.

Without Owen to compete with, I take the lead. Owen produces two more bottles of rum. We toast to our youth. To freedom. To the sea.

And for a few hours, I allow myself to forget. To just be.

I try to ignore Titus, seated on the barrel to my left, his face flushed, shirt halfway unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to reveal the patchwork of tattoos that ink his forearms.…

I take another drink. Focus, Aster.

Titus moves closer, his barrel scraping the wood as Charlie and Lewis break into their fourth argument of the evening. Owen moderates. Diana takes bets. I catch Titus sneaking a look at my cards, his shoulder brushing mine.

The contact is electric, but I force myself to pull away for the sake of my winning hand.

Titus’s lips curl, coy and charming. “Too bad,” he murmurs.

The cards? Or the distance between us?

I take another drink. Lay down my hand.

Gabriel curses. “Again?” he bellows, slamming down his cards. He rubs his hands over his face. “This game is cursed.”

“Oh, relax, Gabe.” Titus claps him on the shoulder. “You’ll have better luck next time.”

But he doesn’t. Owen deals another hand. I win another round. I take another drink.

This continues, broken only by the occasional win from Titus. When Owen finally calls it a night, the others stumble off to their bunks or pass out where they lie on the main deck, like Diana and Charlie, their outstretched hands barely touching as they face each other on a bed of velvet quilts.

My head feels as heavy as a cannonball. The lanterns blur when I get to my feet, and when I sway, stumbling to my left, I fall into warm, strong arms. Tattooed arms.

“Careful, love,” Titus murmurs, his breath warm on my cheek as he steadies me.

“I thought—” I blink, rub my eyes. “I thought you said you wouldn’t—be here to catch me—or—you wouldn’t always be—catching me.…”

He tenses as he spins me around to face him, his chest grazing mine with every labored breath. His grip on my forearm is firm, but when his thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, his touch is soft. “Did I?”

I nod, my neck like a cooked noodle. “Yep,” I say, popping my lips.

His jaw ticks, his eyes darkening. “I lied.”

My nose wrinkles. “You’re sweaty.”

A crooked grin. “You’re drunk.”

I twirl out of his arms and scramble up the steps that lead to the helm, feeling as if I’d climbed a mountain by the time I reach the top and collapse, sprawling out on my back, the stars like fluid beams of light swirling overhead. “So are you.”

He plops down beside me, panting for breath as if he’d given chase. “Yes,” he drawls. “But I have experience with these matters.”